Month: September 2015

Immigrants, Migrants, Illegal, Aliens—-The Scourge of the World???

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Soundtrack “Alone” by Jesse Cook.

Immigrants, migrants, illegal aliens—-are they the life blood of the human specie, the pulsing life force that keeps the gene pool strong and indomitable, or are they as some politicians might ask you to believe, leaches and parasites?

These are the ones who choose to fight for a better future for themselves and their children——and willing to pay the price for this aspiration. They live in hope, walk by faith, they possess tenacity, they are the ones who refuse to accept things as they are and are willing to stake their life on this often dubious proposition. The weak give up and stay while strong get up and move on.

Ya see, I have a theory. When the weather changed and the crops failed, when wars raged bringing rape and death, when disease ravaged the young and the old, when home became inhospitable, there has always been a hybrid population in the human specie that would forsake all they once knew to seek a better life. Part dreamer, part head strong, part gambler, part self determining, part wild and crazy——these are the qualities that make up a surviver……no, a thriver!

They left the old country behind to seek their freedom. When the dust bowl blew in they packed up their jalopies and families and headed west to California, just like Tom Joad. When they couldn’t earn enough to support their family they swam the Rio Grand with only the shirt on their backs. They took their chances on death boats, trudged across burning desserts, they crowded into stuffy cattle cars and hid in hot trailers. They walked for hundreds of miles carrying their children and their meager belongings on their backs. They fled tyranny, wars, plagues, corrupt leaders, pestilence, droughts, floods, famine and persecution. And once they arrived they often found themselves unwelcome and mistreated.

From Moses to Neil Armstrong, we are a people of tough and courageous stock. Ever since we were kicked out of Eden, we have had to fight, kick and scratch to make a life in this turbulent and changing world. It is these dreamers, explores, adventures, and risk takers, who’s perseverance led them to peek over the horizon and search for a better tomorrow.

I further theorize, that the ones who lacked the vision, strength and fortitude to move on from an inhospitable environment, that these are the ones who’s genes died out. As natural selection has taught us, it is the strong who survive and propagate. Those that migrate aren’t looking for handouts, they are looking for a new start, a place to earn a decent living and a patch of land to call home.  These are the people who do some of the most labor intensive jobs.  They pick fruits and vegetables in the summer heat, they make beds and clean rooms, they wash dishes and buss tables, they sweep, mop and throw out the garbage, they toil and labor because they see the opportunities that we often take for granted.

Most people flee their home because they seek liberty, safety and a way to earn a living wage.  If politicians wanted to prevent individuals from entering their country all they need to do is financially fine the employers who hire these individuals.  That would not require the expense or symbolism of building a wall, but our dirty little secret is that this would leave many business in a financial bind.

“All those that wander are not lost.” We are all descendants of gypsies and once seeds in the wind. There is no “us and them”, no borders, no nations, no countries (can you imagine? Lennon reference). These human inventions were designed to create divisiveness. These arbitrary concepts are in flux, but it is the human irrepressible spirit that never changes and forges ever forward.

We are all more alike than different. We all want the same basic necessities. We are stronger by being inclusive rather than exclusive. Tolerance and acceptance breeds diversity. And, diversity is what keeps the human gene pool flexible and agile.

The next time you want to hate on someone who’s an immigrant, a migrant or someone “different” than you, remember that, “there but for fortune go you or I”. The person you are hating may be a father who’s seen his children die from lack of food, water or medicine, or a sister who’s seen her brother tortured and murdered, or a woman who had been raped and beaten. These individuals may be leaving everything behind to escape horrors that you and I can’t comprehend.  To be your brothers keeper is an inescapable responsibility we all share.

The universe abhors a vacuum. Lets fill that vacuum with cooperation, empathy and compassion.

Fallen Angel

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   To hear the song open original post.                                         

                                          Fallen Angel By Victor Uriz-piano and vocals

You say you left home, you took a chance or two

No matter where you go, seems like hard times followed you

You try to smile and you try to believe
The way things are, are the way they should be

Fallen angel I think you know
What I’m talking about

Lying awake you try to forget
The things we want, it seems we never could get

You’re feeling it now, I’m feeling it too
What was one, is now again two

Its all the same, no matter where you go
Everybody’s lonely, they just don’t let it show

Sometimes hearts, fall apart
Love can leave you blind

Now where do you go, how do you start again
Is this the way things suppose to end

Fallen angel, I think you know
What I’m talking about

Bad Decisions

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Soundtrack by Coldplay “Sky Full Of Stars”.

Stories and dreams. We all have them, but having someone to tell them to is as close as some of us may ever get to giving them form. Putting such flimsy notions into words and trusting someone with them is such a dangerous propositions. We’ve all been misunderstood and laughed at——-betrayed when least expected, hurt by those most trusted. So we retreat further into adulthood, into becoming conventional and bland. But I never felt that way towards you, cause you allowed me to believe in glory and grace——in fact, you encouraged my groping wishes to wake and be given life, with you I could be an astronaut, free to explore my outer and inner space. I could be a Zen warrior, or a pale version of a cool-ass bluesman, you gave me the swagger of a pirate, the bravado of a rodeo clown——with you, I became wide open and fearless, featureless….. liberated and limitless…….You offered a love that never expires, a timeless space where there is no room for regret or remorse….

They say that the starlight we see is millions of light years old and in fact, some of those stars we hold as real have long ago flamed out. They implode or explode or wink off into the blackness like a dream or story that never reaches its surface. As stars bleed light, so it is for the lonely who hemorrhage hope. You and I float hand in hand above this blue marble, wearing nothing but our smiles— and it’s all so beautiful from a distance.

Where you’re from, isn’t who ya are, but it shapes what you become.  And when we were young, all we wanted to do was get out of this place that we thought made us lonely and small (but we didn’t even know what loneliness could feel like—— as foolish as comparing a paper cut to a severed soul) and now we can only go back there in memory or dreams====and if you can still share a memory or a dream with someone——then you can understand that it’s not so bad losing this battle with time.

And don’t let them tell you that time is a river, no——-, it’s like that glassed in machine on the boardwalk where taffy is stretched, pulled and folded back into itself——It will pull the caps off your teeth, stick to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter, it will adhere to the sole of your shoe, eventually becoming a wad of molasses covered in dirt, making you limp, causing each step forward to feel more like a stumble……

I’d once heard it said that “Bad decisions make for great stories”. To me, that’s the most Christian thing ever spoken. Truer than any condemning bible quote, more real than any evangelic sermon intended to save my other gummed up soul. We’re here to make mistakes, to fuck up, to work it out and fuck it up all over again. So don’t feel so bad, it’s what were here to do—–

You’re the worst decision I ever made, but god we have such great stories to share————-

Second to Silence

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Jazz is night music. Its color is a warm dark hue of indigo or a buzzing red neon light filtered through a hazy blue smoke. Its unremitting solo’s meander above the cacophony of whispers, clinking glasses, hoots, hollers and howlin’ laughter. It smells musky and sweet like jasmine perfume on a women’s heated body, its flavor the mixture of Juicy Fruit gum and nicotine on her warm damp breath in my ear. It’s mysterious and sensual, fueled by the improvisation of a moment, that moment.

Jazz knows no age, unlike rock and roll with its youthful angst and rebel demeanor. Rock reincarnates itself every generation, its thundering three chord progression rattling the walls of the established rules of convention. Its devotees are dressed in black trench coats or multi colored tie-dye. Some wear skulls and cross bones, while others sport rainbows and peace signs. Its sound is loud and angry. It’s impatient and shockingly rude, and then it will suddenly render a tender love story about first love, lost love or no love at all. The lyric’s demand a change to the inequities of this sad life, its practitioners opening their chaste new eyes and ears to the atrocities of their parents, boldly pointing out their inexcusable mistakes and follies. And that drumbeat keeps thrashing away on beats two and four of each measure.

Gospel and blues come from the same place. They speak with the voice of the soul, from worship and praise to misery and sorrow. It can be heard in the rapturous choir shout of one slain in spirit, as well as the grave moan rising from deep in the throat of a sullen bluesman or a share cropper singing from his sagging paint chipped porch to a field of cotton that refuses to grow and to all the women who’ve wronged him and that boss man who don’t give a damn how he suffers in the dust and swelters under that blistering delta sun. Its angst distilled by that wretched dominate seventh chord and ladled from the devils caldron itself, then coaxed out of a bedraggled guitar by a merciful calloused hand. It’s in the god forsaken growl of a B-3 Hammond organ, the shake and rattle of a jubilant tambourine, and everything of heaven and hell, the sacred and the profane, choked on and spat out.

Classical is a concoction of swirling violins, sawed cellos, surging brass and woodwinds with the fracas of timpani, drum and cymbal in close tow. Its fragrance blows in the breeze like the scent of pine needles on a warm July Sunday afternoon. Classical is an extension of nature, its suits, chorales and movements seem to unfold from itself, like galaxies of stars that go off into infinity, breaching the void with unimaginable beauty, stretching across eternal light years, making time and distance meaningless . And the moment is always present, all is one, and one is all. Its color is the refraction of light through a prism. I don’t know how it works, but its miraculous to behold, like God or Zen thoughts, which are no thoughts at all, its composition is only second to silence.

Smoke Screen

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Soundtrack “A Light On A Hill” by Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s.

Photo by Victor Uriz

The drone of the air conditioning system is what keeps me in a state of blah. The drivel coming from the facilitators voice would anger me if I let his words through and into my psyche. Occasionally, his cliche’s would seep in causing me to cringe. “When do you really start living? Yes, when we confront death.” The air conditioning thermostat had clicked off leaving an empty space for his words to slip into my stupefied ears. “Life; you have to want it, more than you fear it.” His voice had the melodic vibe of a preacher with the pensive drawl of a professor. The participants sat stoic as he gestured with his hands and paced back and forth.

The class is an odd mixture of middle aged folks and weathered senior citizens. A third of the individuals are hooked up to oxygen tanks with hoses plugged into their nostrils. There’s the incessant sound of wheezing, hacking and whistling bronchial sighs. The grim reaper is peering through the window blinds. This is the eight week class for those suffering from emphysema, COPD and respiratory related diseases. The topics to be covered included everything from smoking cessation to what the brochure defined as “wellness”. I suppose we are all somewhere on that bell shaped curve between sick and well. This class was skewed to the right side of that curve, we all knew it, and it bonded us. We all knew the score, we had our backs against the wall——mortality is the great equalizer——-living gasp to gasp…….

The class is taught in the basement of the old county hospital. The place reeks of Pinesole, cafeteria food and musty mold. The linage of life traverses within these walls, from pediatrics to geriatric’s, from mothers pushing life out, to the assisted living ward where others were being pulled out. There is a quiet seriousness that permeates the halls, examining rooms and the patients semi-private quarters. Visitors walk softly, talk in hushed voices and all emotion is stifled. I hated the place, as well as my instructor and my fellow classmates. I showed up every Tuesday and Thursday because the program is mandated by my insurance carrier. Without insurance coverage, my inhaler would be three-hundred dollars a month, now that’s enough to take my breath away.

They say that the first thing you forget about someone after they’ve passed away is the sound of their voice. But for me, it’s the life in their eyes. Age, illness and death carry pieces of us away, but the memory of the life in someones eyes is the first thing to flicker and then forever be extinguished. It can’t be captured in a photograph, or seen once the soul has vacated, perhaps this is why morticians close the eyes of those who have departed.

“Inhale slowly as you count to three, and then slowly exhale as you count to three.” There’s the sound of air being forced through a narrowed space, followed by a chorus of wet hacks. “Great job. Please do your reading and vision exercises before our next class. If you are feeling weak or a need to smoke, please call our 24 hour crisis line at “no smoke” 667-6653.”

I knew that the line to scale the staircase out of the basement would be slow, so I hustled to get to the stairs before the O2 tankers or the gaspers attempted their Everest push to the top. The August heat is stifling as I make my way to my car. As I open the car door the stale odor of tobacco fills my nose. The ashtray overflows with old butts, I inhale a deep breath of the hot air with its dank taste of ancient nicotine. I pick up an old butt and suck on the yellowed filter. Everywhere I go I seem to be drawn to old cigarette butts snubbed out on the ground, or stray singles in my junk drawer or in the pockets of my cowboy shirts. At night in my dreams, I smoke.

Buried in our basement we begin to resurrect our stories. Our tales like shadow puppets, a strange amalgamation of surreal dreams and vague snapshots shrouded by time. Confessions can be cathartic, but I trust few with my secrets—-I trust few with anything of mine. Our instructor repeatedly tells us that our blindspots are what keep us from evolving or——-transforming. For me, there is no making peace with myself, self loathing is my only friend.

The chairs are arranged in a circle with the facilitator sitting cross legged, legal pad and pen in his lap. I’ve attended a myriad of support groups, NA, AA, GA, anger management, bipolar, religious groups, pow wow’s, wounded child and such. God, were a sad, shameless bunch of unraveling fucked up losers. We cling to our prescriptions, lucky charms and technological gizmos, but we’re still unsatisfied, unfulfilled, lifeless, loveless, tripping over our own egos; frozen between a fight or flight response to our fears.

“The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom…for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.” I wonder if William Blake was an addict. Poe was, and his words ring true in my mind, “I become insane with long intervals of horrible sanity”. All of this thinking is making me crazy. I catch a glimpse of my troubled eyes in my rearview mirror. I drive in a daze, the city is a blur, I’m outside myself. It’s 9:00 am and the day is already to long.

Is this what it feels like to not be alive? Something is missing or broken. But what? I don’t know, but something isn’t right. I spend to much time outside myself, to much time with small talking strangers. I’ve been wasting my days chasing my cravings. I’ve allowed the small things to eluded me. I go to bed wondering about this——and that—- and everything at once.

Life—-It fills me, I fill it, it leaves me, then I’m emptied, in a flash everything connects……What a strange feeling——

Fresh bedsheets, laying next to someone in the stillness of a dark night, cool air being drawn into my lungs, breezes from an open window, scent of pines, hoot owls calling, moon shadows on the wall———-letting everything go——no longer outside myself, no seeking, no finding……..just being, being alive, on this first day of September. I feel summer losing it’s warm grip. Life is suddenly easier in the small things. And it doesn’t even matter if the sun packs up and leaves in search of a better sky.